


Birthright

by ariel2me



Series: House Martell [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:43:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arianne finding Doran’s letter to Quentyn that made her suspect her father was planning to deny Arianne her birthright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthright

In her dreams, Arianne never noticed the candle at all. Never walked closer to her father’s desk to blow it out. Never saw the unfinished letter lying next to it. Never succumbed to her unbridled curiosity, never read the words that would etch themselves permanently into her memory, never cried the tears that would be her constant companion for many, many nights to come. She would make her way to her mother’s room instead, found her father there, and gave him the goodnight kiss she had come to his solar for. Her father would smile, and she would not doubt his smile. He would kiss her cheek, and she would not turn away from his touch. He would call her name, and she would not grow to resent the sound of his voice. Even her mother would look pleased, and not so unhappy for once.

In the land where dreams did not rule supreme, however, Arianne _did_ notice the candle. How, she did not know. She had been thinking of Daemon Sand; her thoughts were always about Daemon lately. So preoccupied was Arianne, she had forgotten to knock before entering her father’s solar. But the room was empty, her father was not there. She was about to turn around and leave the room when her eyes noticed the flickering and swaying flame. Rolls and rolls of parchments and a few pieces of paper were lying on the desk, so very close to the flame.

It was unlike her father to be so careless. He must have gone out of the room in a hurry, Arianne thought. _Another bad news?_ She prayed that was not the case; her father had had enough bad news to last a lifetime. Bowing her head to blow out the candle, some of the words scrawled on a piece of paper caught her attention.

_One day you will sit where I sit_

It was her father’s handwriting.

_-and rule all Dorne_

Her first thought had been – _why would Father write me a letter? He could speak to me any time he wishes._

_-and a ruler must be strong of mind and body._

The letter trailed off there, without her father’s signature. An unfinished letter to the heiress of Sunspear, and the future ruling Princess of Dorne? Arianne’s eyes strayed to the top of the page.

_To my son Quentyn_

No, it could not be. Her eyes must be deceiving her. She read the salutation again.

_To my son Quentyn,_ it still said. Not _To my daughter Arianne._

_I am the oldest. This is Dorne, the inheritance laws of the Seven Kingdoms do not apply here._

And yet saying that to herself over and over again did not make the words alter on the letter. Not in the slightest. She reread the most wounding sentence over and over again.

**_One day you will sit where I sit, and rule all Dorne._ **

_Do you doubt me, Father? Why? Because I am not a man? Yet your lady mother ruled as Princess of Dorne for many years, and you have nothing but great admiration for her._

**_One day you will sit where I sit, and rule all Dorne._ **

_What did I do? How have I displeased you? Please, Father._ She pleaded to the empty room, to the air her father had breathed just a short while ago, to the flame that seemed to burn too brightly in a room that had gone cold and desolate for Arianne.

The tears came first, that night, and countless nights after. Her pillow was soaked, and so were her sheets and blanket. She grew weary of her own tears after a while.

**_One day you will sit where I sit, and rule all Dorne._ **

_My birthright! You cannot simply steal it from me to give to Quentyn._

Anger was better than tears, she soon discovered. Much, much better. Anger fuelled her determination, fortified her conviction, dried her tears, and toughened her heart.

_I_ will _be the ruling Princess of Dorne, as I am meant to be. You will not rob me of my birthright, Father._

She would never run to her father again when she skinned her knees. Or when she had her heart broken, or her faith tested, or her love and loyalty divided. 


End file.
